


A Couple of Mugs

by Thealmostrhetoricalquestion



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Compliant, Comfort Food, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, Pie, Post-Battle of Hogwarts, Pre-Relationship, Rare Pairings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-17
Updated: 2019-08-17
Packaged: 2020-09-08 02:57:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20288767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion/pseuds/Thealmostrhetoricalquestion
Summary: Nobody had ever accused Harry of being sensible before, but even he wouldn't have thought to put pie in a mug. Luckily, George is more than happy to show him what he's missing.





	A Couple of Mugs

**Author's Note:**

> Have you ever sat up in bed suddenly with a scene in your brain and just had to write it? Because I did. And I have! And here it is! This is my not-so-secret weakness, this pairing, and I know it's not very popular but I love it. This story is very soft and stupid, and that's my warning.

The best thing about magic was what it could do with food. Sure, some of it turned him into a Canary, and some of it broke his teeth when certain friendly giants made it, but usually Harry ended up happy and full. That didn't mean Harry always _understood_ what had been done to his food, but he very rarely turned it away. That was why he held on tightly when a mug was pushed into his hands, rather than chucking it away when he saw what was in it, though he did blink down in confusion.

“What’s this?” he asked, as George sat down on the windowsill opposite him. It was a big windowsill, with a fitted cushion stretching up the walls and a dreamcatcher twirling from a hook above. More of an alcove than anything, it caught the evening sun and trapped it. 

“I can’t believe you’ve never had pie before,” George said. 

Harry had eaten pie before. Just not like this. 

George produced two forks and handed one to Harry, who took it with no less bemusement than he started out with. Neither of them mentioned the mug. The best way to deal with the twins had always been to pretend like nothing was out of the ordinary. He hoped the tactic still worked when it was just George around to see through it.

“Thanks,” Harry said, poking his fork at the mug. Sure enough, there was a pie inside. The top of the mug was entirely covered in a pastry hat, with little crosses cut into it to let some of the steam out. The crust broke off under his fork and crumbled in his lap. “I didn't have any dinner.”

“I know. Mum nearly had a heart attack when she realised she hadn’t fed you. I’m surprised you didn't hear her screeching.”

Harry felt a bit guilty about that, but not enough to go back downstairs. Winter was trudging towards them, and the Burrow was bustling with people seeking Molly’s hot stew and a minute of gossip. There were wreaths on the downstairs table, ready to be dotted with berries and flakes of fake snow. It was always so busy that it was impossible to feel alone. 

Harry didn't want to be alone - that was why he came here, to the Burrow, to remind himself that the people here loved him - but sometimes it was a bit much. 

“Pretty sure pie tastes better when you put it in your mouth,” George said, settling down properly. His voice had that odd note to it, one that was rapidly growing familiar. Harry knew it was a _lack_ of something, rather than a new ingredient in his cheerful voice, and he didn't think it would ever go away. Or be filled. 

Unless the past was rewritten, or Fred came back, then George would always sound like that. 

“Thanks for the advice,” Harry said dryly. “I was just going to rub it on my chin.”

George winked. “Far be it for me to crush your kinks, Harry.”

With a roll of his eyes, Harry dug into his pie. He didn't ask why it was in a mug, and he was sure George wouldn’t have an answer that made sense, but admittedly it was easier to hold it in the windowsill than a plate would have been. He bit through layers of crumbly golden pastry and gravy, humming as flavour burst on his tongue. 

“S’good,” Harry said through a mouthful. “Thanks.” 

He’d said that already, but George didn't comment, busy with his own pie. They ate in semi-silence, forks clinking against the sides of their mugs while the garden swayed outside. 

Between bites, George talked in pieces about a new product for the shop, and Harry chimed in with ideas. They ate steadily, and the sun sank lower in the red-pink sky. 

George’s long legs didn't quite fit in the window. Harry had always begrudged Ron his height, and the way he towered over Harry and grinned down at him like a cheeky bastard didn't help. But with George, the extra length just made him look a bit awkward and startled every now and again. Like he’d forgotten he had limbs until they bumped up against Harry’s legs, and then it was a moment of reordering everything. 

“See, this is where the kitchen table comes out on top,” George said, arranging his feet with some difficulty. “Plenty of space for all the Weasley’s and their feet, and if I want to kick someone, I have a choice about who.”

“But you only ever seem to kick Percy,” Harry pointed out. 

“He’s always the most sensible choice.”

Harry grinned into his mug. He wasn’t sure what to do with the rest of his pie, stuck at the bottom, but eventually he shrugged and tipped it to his mouth. Some went down his chin, and he wiped it away with only a hint of embarrassment. George wouldn’t mind. 

And indeed George didn't mind. He smiled bemusedly at Harry, before tipping his own mug back. When he lowered it with a smack of his lips, shaking his head, the setting sun tangled in his hair and turned it to locks of flickering fire. 

“It’s always weird to me that the Anniversary’s in spring.” Harry rested his mug down on his thigh, unable to look George in the eye. “Spring’s supposed to be for new things, for new life. It always feels like it should be a winter thing.”

There was no need to ask which Anniversary he meant. The war had ended one year ago last May, and it had been the longest, most quiet year of his life. Now, with October creeping ever closer, Harry felt a bit lost. How long was it appropriate to grieve for? Was he supposed to get up and carry on with things now, as though nothing had changed? A year seemed like enough time on the outside for things to get back to normal, and he dreaded the day when people started asking him about his plans.

But maybe there was no time limit on this sort of thing. He still woke up with tears in his eyes for Sirius, and the ache for his parents had grown smaller, but it wasn’t going to go away. Maybe it was okay to sit in a window and not know what to do yet. 

“Fred liked winter,” George said, out of nowhere. He gazed out of the window, seemingly unaware of Harry’s shape stare. “He liked the food and the cold, and snowball fights. Christmas, too, and coming up with a new sweater prank. I was always more of a spring or summer person. Most people would think it’s the other way round, right? He was the bright one, the one everyone looked at.”

Quietly, Harry said, “Did you mind?”

George met his eyes. He looked thoughtful, like he was coming back from somewhere far off in the distance, somewhere Harry couldn’t touch. But Harry went there too. Or his own version of that somewhere, at any rate, so he knew to let George be. 

A smile broke out over George’s face. “Wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Harry felt warm. It could have been the pie, or the way the sun fell on his skin, or it could have been the familiar funny sight of several gnomes crouched by a flowerpot, sneaking through the Weasley’s garden. 

He caught sight of George’s smile again. Reluctantly, he had to admit that the warmth could have been something else. 

“We’ve got company,” Harry murmured, pointing at the queue of knobbly gnomes forming behind the chicken coop. They were far away, down in the garden, but not too far that they couldn’t be a distraction. 

George gave up wrangling his unruly legs and tucked his feet under Harry’s thighs, sighing. “We’re going to have to throw the little buggers back in the field tomorrow, and it’s supposed to snow. I’m going to freeze my bollocks off.”

“It’s a shame we don't have magic to fix that,” Harry said mildly. “Or somewhere else to be.” 

“Why Harry,” George said, with sly delight. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, you slippery Slytherin, you?”

Well, hopefully. Because George hadn’t opened the window and pushed Harry out of it, which probably meant he was amenable to a date, since that was what Harry was trying to suggest. 

“I mean, it’s no pie in a mug, but I know somewhere that does a really good roast dinner.” Harry fiddled with the handle of his mug and took a leap. “Tomorrow evening?”

He expected a joke or a teasing remark, even if George did say yes. Instead he got a remarkably vulnerable grin, and a small nod. George’s eyes were quite dark in this light, but still pleased. Maybe even a little hopeful too. 

“Yeah,” George said. “I’m free tomorrow.”

“No dessert though,” Harry said, lifting his mug with a slow, unstoppable grin. Lightness flooded through him, leaving him momentarily giddy with relief. “I want to see if you can make treacle tart in one of these.”

George lifted his empty pie-mug in and vowed, “For you, Harry, I’ll try.” 

Harry didn't think it was the sun or the meal that had made him feel warm. He had an inkling that he and George were going to spend a long time chasing away the cold for each other, and he was very much looking forward to finding out if he was right.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this gentle casual nonsense. Thank you for reading! Always happy to hear from you! <3


End file.
